


Panic.

by EmrysHolmes



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Brakebills, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Panic Attacks, Welters Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 05:34:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmrysHolmes/pseuds/EmrysHolmes
Summary: After being locked in his own head by Julia, Quentin suffers from an anxiety attack. And who should find him but our lovable addict? (Post 1x04)





	Panic.

For once, in what seemed like an eternity, the Physical kid’s cottage was shrouded in silence, the occasional lamp light flickering through uncovered windows.

Eliot lay close to slumber, eyes flickering across his unbearably dark room, pupils tracking the shadows dancing in from the path lights that illuminated the sleeping beast of Brakebills University. The day had been quiet, even more so considering the heinous act that had befallen Quentin and in turn the rest of the school. Even the thought of it turned Eliot’s blood to fire, how dare that hedge-witch bitch, Quentin’s only friend from the ‘real world’, attack him? Make him doubt his own sanity to such a point that an overdose or deliberate disassociation seemed to be the only cure for the poison within his mind.

Disgusting.

With a huff, Eliot flipped onto his back, long, spindly fingers curling through his unruly hair, ensuring a birds’ nest would greet him in the morning. Or, he thought lazily, in a few hours at least.

Eliot lay in his lush bed for a few minutes more, thoughts spinning around in a vicious circle, as he continued to drift without the usual haze of intoxication. Resolving that was to be no sleep for the wicked on that night, Eliot slipped out of his bed and crept towards the door. Grasping his golden, silk dressing gown, Eliot padded into the hallway of the cottage, intent on fixing himself a hard drink before moving to the common room for some light ‘study’.

Before he had even made three steps towards the winding stairs that would lead him to his drink, Eliot caught muted muttering and what seemed to be sobbing. Casting his thoughts aside from the plans that lay awaiting, Eliot tilted his head coyly, eyes sliding shut as he identified the source of the noise, intent on casting a mute spell, to leave the poor soul in peace.

That was until he identified the room the sobbing was coming from was Quentin’s.

Fuck.

Purposefully, Eliot began to stride towards the first year’s room, dressing gown flapping like a cape behind him. As he shoved open Quentin’s door, Eliot briefly entertaining the idea of knocking before kicking it aside as Quentin’s sobs grew in intensity.

Quentin’s room, unlike most of the cottage, was coated in light – almost obnoxiously so. Everything was switched on, from the main light, to his lamp and the tree shaped nightlight that was jammed haphazardly in the socket over Quentin’s bed. In any other circumstances, Eliot may have taken the opportunity to mock Quentin lightly. However, Eliot reasoned that after the day Quentin had had, he deserved any and all the comforts he could find.

 Closing the door behind him, Eliot’s calculating gaze searched the room, finally locking onto Quentin’s shivering form.  
The first year was curled up in a ball in the far corner of the room, sheltered under the exceedingly plain Brakebill’s provided desk. His head was down, long mane sheltering whatever it could as Quentin sobbed, and, if Eliot listened carefully, muttered under his breath, “I never left, I’m still here. I didn’t get out.”

Peering around the room again, Eliot shifted on the balls of his feet as he assessed his options. Proper or decent comfort wasn’t really Eliot’s thing, but he would be damned if he was going to let the first year suffer.

With an air of confidence, Eliot sauntered towards the abandoned bed, snaffling one of the softer blankets adorning the covers and several pillows, before shifting back towards the desk. Loosening his tie, Eliot kneeled at Quentin’s feet, and stretched out an empty hand, moving to gently brush Quentin’s bangs out of the way. At the touch, Quentin froze and keened, the broken, harrowing sound filling the room.

“Hey Q, it’s alright.” Eliot began, his voice gentle, “You’re at Brakebills, curled up under your frankly _ghastly_ desk and I’m kneeling at your feet.” Slowly, the keen began to taper off, Quentin’s legs slowly relaxing, head tilting towards the voice of his friend.

“That’s it Q,” Eliot continued, a smile sneaking onto his face. “It was just a nightmare.” Taking a deep breath, the older boy placed the blanket and pillows at Quentin’s feet, continuing to murmur nonsensical sentences to the first year.

After several minutes of gentle, one-sided conversation, Quentin shifted again, finally uncurling his arms from his figure, eyes shifting to meet Eliot’s gaze.  
Clearing his throat gently, Eliot’s voice tapered off as he noticed the glazed, whiskey eyes staring back at him, recognition slowly illuminating them.

“Hey Q, you back with me?”

Although Quentin was beginning to respond and associate with his room again, Eliot received no verbal response. As such, all he received was a gentle nod as Quentin’s eyes left his, dancing around the room. Taking a deep breath, Eliot rocked back onto the balls of his feet and delicately shifted the stacked blanket and pillows towards the first year.

“I’m going to assume that you don’t want to move,” Eliot stated, voice still soft, as if he was approaching a skittish animal. “So I’m just going to put this blanket on you, okay?”

As soon as Eliot had finished speaking and was beginning to move towards the door, Quentin moved suddenly. “Stay,” He managed to choke out as his clammy hand grasped itself tightly around Eliot’s wrist. As a minute seemed to pass, another noise escaped Quentin in a sob, “Please.”

Disregarding any of his usual flamboyance or delicacy, Eliot stripped himself of Quentin’s hand and his dressing gown, nodding, an air of finality permeating the room. “Course I will Q, come here.” Eliot laid out the pillows and blankets, guiding Quentin down to the floor with him, slender arm wrapping around the first year. “I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight.” Glancing around the room once more, Eliot pulled the blanket up over the pair and closed his eyes, tucking his head into Quentin’s shoulder, content to be the comfort the boy desperately needed.

As Eliot’s head nestled into Quentin’s shoulder, he felt the nervous ball of energy in his abdomen soothing. And, slowly but surely, Quentin began to drift off, his mind focusing on the rise and fall of Eliot’s chest.

 _This is real_ , he thought. _This is home._


End file.
